


Untitled five things

by julad



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Imported, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-15
Updated: 2014-06-15
Packaged: 2018-02-04 17:29:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1787203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/julad/pseuds/julad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Just imported, cleanup and tagging needed</p>
    </blockquote>





	Untitled five things

**Author's Note:**

> Just imported, cleanup and tagging needed

Quick thing, unbetaed, since I really shouldn't be writing right now anyway. These are leftover story/scene ideas from S3, scribbled down before that state of mind is a distant memory. Shouldn't be spoilery of anything.

Since I am a terrible person and haven't replied to all the comments for the last story, this is for [](http://gradiva.livejournal.com/profile)[**gradiva**](http://gradiva.livejournal.com/) , [](http://beatperfume.livejournal.com/profile)[**beatperfume**](http://beatperfume.livejournal.com/) , [](http://dleigh.livejournal.com/profile)[**dleigh**](http://dleigh.livejournal.com/) , [](http://rhiannonhero.livejournal.com/profile)[**rhiannonhero**](http://rhiannonhero.livejournal.com/) , [](http://zosha2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**zosha2003**](http://zosha2003.livejournal.com/) , [](http://beloved4always.livejournal.com/profile)[**beloved4always**](http://beloved4always.livejournal.com/) , [](http://josselin.livejournal.com/profile)[**josselin**](http://josselin.livejournal.com/) (I fixed the initials!), [](http://xoverau.livejournal.com/profile)[**xoverau**](http://xoverau.livejournal.com/) , [](http://blueandomlettes.livejournal.com/profile)[**blueandomlettes**](http://blueandomlettes.livejournal.com/) , [](http://punkdoc.livejournal.com/profile)[**punkdoc**](http://punkdoc.livejournal.com/) , [](http://lexii314.livejournal.com/profile)[**lexii314**](http://lexii314.livejournal.com/) , [](http://eleveninches.livejournal.com/profile)[**eleveninches**](http://eleveninches.livejournal.com/) , [](http://ranalore.livejournal.com/profile)[**ranalore**](http://ranalore.livejournal.com/) , [](http://mintwitch.livejournal.com/profile)[**mintwitch**](http://mintwitch.livejournal.com/) , [](http://qafhappy.livejournal.com/profile)[**qafhappy**](http://qafhappy.livejournal.com/) , [](http://erilyn.livejournal.com/profile)[**erilyn**](http://erilyn.livejournal.com/) , [](http://callmesandy.livejournal.com/profile)[**callmesandy**](http://callmesandy.livejournal.com/) , and [](http://parallactic.livejournal.com/profile)[**parallactic**](http://parallactic.livejournal.com/). Shit, that's a lot of names. :(

**Untitled Five Things**

* * * * *

1.

Justin comes home and Brian looks annoyed to see him.

"I thought you finished at ten," he snaps from behind the computer.

"Slow night," Justin tells him, and perches on the corner of the desk, ass right where Brian can see it. "I was horny, so I left."

Brian doesn't fidget nervously, of course, but he does compulsively stack all the papers on his desk and line up his pens in a neat row. Then he remembers that he doesn't care what Justin thinks. "Well fuck off and come back at ten, I've got a trick coming over."

Justin isn't annoyed. Not really. He backs off and gives Brian his space. "I just got here," he says, wandering in the direction of the fridge. "I'm not going out again. I'll stay out of your way."

Brian scowls, grunts, and disappears into the bathroom, which is what passes for acquiescence to an ultimatum these days.

Justin pours a glass of juice and drinks it and glares at the desk where Brian was sitting, and then there's a knock on the door. When he opens it, there's a prissy muscled slut looking surprised and disappointed to see Justin. That makes the decision so much easier.

"*Briaaaan!*" Justin yells, as obnoxiously as possible. "Your trick's here!"

Brian strides out, and risks ruining his grand entrance with a sideways look at Justin. Prissy Muscled Slut perks up and licks his lips.

Justin wanders back to the fridge. "How long will this take?" he calls out. "Because I was gonna order pizza. Or there's a new Thai place that delivers."

Brian gives him the glare of You Are So Dead, Blondie.

"I'm hungry," Justin complains. "And you said you'd order groceries today. I'm not gonna wait for you to finish when it's your fault there's nothing to eat."

PMS is on the verge of queening out. Brian swears and shoves him out the door, slamming it closed behind him. Justin finds a carrot that isn't too flaccid, and bites into it. Brian advances on him, riding the knife-edge of amused/pissed.

"You made me throw my trick away," he says, low and deadly.

Justin grins. "He wasn't your type anyway."

 

* * * * *

 

2.

These are the things that Brian doesn't like to do, in order of importance: watersports, barebacking, bottoming, sixty-nining, fucking outdoors.

These are the things that Brian likes to do, in order of importance: fucking, fucking in public, fucking in the shower, getting head, getting head in the shower, getting head in public, getting handjobs, getting handjobs in public, sucking on clean skin, sucking on sweaty skin, watching himself fuck, watching other guys fuck, fucking with porn on, getting head with porn on, getting rimmed, fucking with bondage, fucking with dildos... It's a long list, but mostly variations on a theme.

These are the things that Brian only does with Justin: rimming him, sucking him, kissing him. Falling asleep inside him. Tickling him. Running fingers through his hair. Painting on his back with hot fudge sauce. Laughing when Justin's leg falls off his shoulder.

It's the third list that makes the difference. Justin's paying attention, this time round.

 

* * * * *

 

3.

Justin gets a call from Ethan, one day.

"I wanted to give you my new address," Ethan explains. "If you're ever in New York, we could catch up, maybe try being friends."

"Isn't that a straight custom?" he asks, only half-joking.

"I'm a magnificent straight," Ethan replies, that sardonic arrogance of his. "I'm getting rave reviews for my performance."

They talk for a while, about things. Even the sound of his voice is alive with passion -- for a Sibelius piece he's rehearsing, for the horrors he saw at the Holocaust Museum, for meeting Itzhak Perlman -- a dream come true for him. He's high on the high life, genuinely thrilled by the music, the concerts, the things he's seen and done. Ethan's emotions know no limits, no moderation.

Justin feels a wisp of might-have-been. He drove Ethan from his mind without a second thought, but the fire that drew him is still lit, still burning. He tells Ethan about the election and Stockwell, but still feels small in comparison. Ethan raves about how brave Justin is, how noble. "Here I am," Ethan says, a little bitterness mixed with his wry, "playing for the enemy, but you're fighting the resistance."

"I don't feel it," Justin confesses, because after all, he could have been there in London, in Berlin, in Israel, living in Ethan's fire, but instead he was in Pittsburgh, working at a diner.

"Hey," Ethan says gently. "My Grandfather would be more proud of you than he is of me."

They arrange to meet up in New York for Ethan's next concert.

Brian comes home to Justin curled up on the couch, listening to that damn CD, and even though Justin can see the fear flicker in his eyes, he doesn't move. There's something about Ethan that makes him feel so confused.

Eventually Brian sits down next to him. "Nostalgic for the days of yore? I could get you some fleas for the mattress."

"Promise me that we'll do amazing things," Justin says suddenly, sitting up. "Promise we won't be stuck in the Pitts forever."

Brian shakes his head. "I don't do promises," he says, and Justin slumps back down, defeated. Brian leans over him, eyes glittering. "Sunshine, if that's what you want, promise *yourself*."

Justin fetches his sketchpad and sits by the window all evening, watching the sun set on the city. There's something about Brian that makes him feel sure.

 

* * * * *

 

4.

For a while, Justin kept a calendar. It wasn't a diary, it was a calendar, one of those tiny fridge calendars from his mother's real estate firm. He bought three highlighters to highlight days on the calendar. Orange was for something amazingly nice, pink was for something really nice, and yellow was for something just ordinary nice. Justin had lots of highlighted days on his calendar, for the times when Brian brought home soy milk because Justin's blotchy skin was probably some fucking dairy intolerance thing, and when Brian told him why his paper on the Cubists was better than the grade he got, and when Brian got him tickets to a seminar on digital art that Justin didn't even know about, and when Brian lectured him on how dressing better than everyone else increased your authority over them (if Justin was really going to waste time at stupid GLC meetings when he could be getting laid).

When Brian pissed him off, Justin looked at the calender to see, in a bright mosaic of orange, pink, and yellow, how much Brian loved him despite occasionally being a selfish, self-centred, inconsiderate, rude and fucked up excuse for a human being. He'd made the mistake once before of not seeing how much Brian loved him, and the calendar helped him remember.

Then Justin is about to miss a deadline on a project with his friend Conrad from PIFA because Brian is fucking Conrad in their bed while Justin works. Justin gets monumentally pissed that he has to actually keep a fucking calendar of when Brian *isn't* a colossal asshole, and throws it out. Then he queens out because that's like throwing away all the really nice things Brian has done, and fishes it out of the garbage. Then he realises that an adult shouldn't have to keep a stupid fucking diary of his fucking relationship to feel good about it, storms into the bedroom, drags Conrad out by the hair and tells Brian to go fuck someone else. Then he gets the project finished on time.

Then he hides the calendar away in a box of junk in the basement, where it won't make him forget how to deal with Brian Fucking Kinney.

 

* * * * *

5.

The building guy said the heating was fixed this morning, but Justin wakes up at 4 a.m., shivering in an ice-cold bedroom. Brian's curled up with most of the blankets, still asleep, but his face is tense and his lips are going white. Swearing under his breath the whole time, dancing naked across the cold cold floor, Justin grabs the entire stack of blankets from the bathroom closet and throws them one by one on top of the Brian heap. When he's done, he crawls into the warm space underneath Brian's torso and tries to warm up again.

His chattering teeth wake Brian, who blinks dazedly at him.

"Heating," Brian mumbles. "Fuckers."

Justin nods in fervent agreement and burrows further in, shivering violently. Brian lets him into the warm spot, and rubs his feet against Justin's, and soon the heat of their bodies makes a cocoon of sleepy bliss that seeps through Justin's skin and muscle and gradually reaches his bones.

"When I was a kid," Brian says softly, and then stops. Justin has never, in three years, heard Brian say those words. He feigns a sleepy 'Mmm?' and concentrates on breathing slowly, as if he hasn't really heard and isn't really listening.

"Before I was old enough to chop firewood," Brian whispers, "if Dad was too drunk to do it and Mom was too bitter, the whole house would be cold like this."

"Mmm," is all Justin says, but he pulls Brian even closer, making sure he's warm now.

 

* * * * *


End file.
